


Tropical Daisy

by cincoflex



Category: Magnum P.I. (TV 1980)
Genre: F/M, Romantic Comedy, bedroom secrets, on the lam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-05-15 02:48:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19286560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: A new housemate with secrets intrigues Thomas.





	1. Chapter 1

**Thomas**

I don’t know exactly when Daisy Munro got under my skin, but it happened. Not quickly, but over time, like anything you take for granted and then realize is kind of wonderful once you see it for what it is. Not planned, although she was pretty, not intentional although including her in everything got easier and easier . . . .

Let’s back up. I first met Daisy Munro when she jumped off the roof of Robin’s Nest. I was paddling in from a long trip out on the water, doing my best to avoid thinking about how I was going to pay for a few things when I glanced up and there she was, standing on the slope side of the tiles facing the ocean, looking like a professional high diver.

Because that’s sort of what she _was_ , but I didn’t know it at the time.

Anyway I panicked a little because all I could see was some stranger who about to take a leap off the roof and I had no idea how she’d gotten up there or where Higgins was and I was still too far out to be of any use. I started paddling double-time, trying to get closer when she gave a wave, hopped, and soared out, dropping down onto what I later found out was a stunt foam pad hidden behind the hedge.

When I got up there, out of breath and trying to yell for Higgins it floored me to find not a broken body, but a person sitting up and grinning at me. Of course the fact that she had a fading black eye and a spectacular set of bruises down one arm took me back, but she held out a hand and I helped her up off the foam pad, wondering what exactly was going on. 

“You must be the private investigator that Mr. Higgins mentioned,” the woman sort of chirped at me. “Thomas Magnum, right?”

“Yes. _Why_ . . .” I waved to the roof, panting a little, “did you just . . .”

“Practice,” she told me. “Sorry, didn’t mean to alarm you. I did it on the ocean side so I wouldn’t scare anyone. Guess I blew it.”

“Practice,” I repeated just to make sure I’d heard her correctly. 

She nodded, and touched her arm. “Don’t worry, this wasn’t from right now. I did this falling off a moving van in Hilo. Missed the mat completely that time but we got the shot in one take so it worked out.”

I looked her over. Medium height and curvy. Muscled, actually. She had dark red hair in a long ponytail and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. I got the feeling that she’d started life as a tomboy and never slowed down. Probably played sports all through school.

“Stuntwoman?” It seemed to be the obvious guess.

“Yep. And body double, stand-in, and extra sometimes,” she agreed. “Daisy Munro.”

“Magnum,” I nodded, and then looked at the pad. It hadn’t been there when I’d gone out earlier that morning so this woman—Daisy—had either set it up herself or had Higgins help her. And why was she even here much less practicing jumping off the roof?

“Robin Masters is my godfather,” Daisy told me and I wondered if she’d read my mind. “He found out I’d . . . fallen,” she looked at her bruised arm, “and urged me to come stay here to recuperate. I’m between jobs so it’s kind of lucky. I won’t get in your way though,” she assured me. “Promise.”

“Magnum.” And _there_ was Higgins, looking as stuffy as usual. I glared at him.

“Hi. So a little heads-up would have been nice,” I tried not to whine but it kinda came out that way. I could tell because he gave me that stare he does so well.

“Miss Munro arrived after you’d left or I would have made proper introductions at that time,” he drawled at me. “No need to sound so aggrieved.”

“She jumped off the _roof_ ,” I pointed out. “I think I’m entitled to be a little aggrieved.”

“He has a point,” she agreed with me and I liked her for that. “I appreciate you coming to check on me and I’ll let you know when I’m going to do something like this next time if possible,” Daisy told me. “Agreed?” She held out a hand and I shook it, feeling a little less annoyed now that we had a deal and that I’d gotten my breath back.

When she went into the house I looked at Higgins but he wasn’t forthcoming, even when I asked.

“Miss Munro will be staying with us for an undetermined length of time,” was pretty much all I got out of him along with, “I know it’s difficult for you, but I fully expect you to respect her privacy, Magnum. You’re not _entitled_ to everyone’s life story.”

“I know,” I told him, “but basic information helps, especially if you want me to stay out of her hair. She already told me she’s Robin Master’s godchild.”

“Yes,” Higgins admitted, “the only one, in fact.”

“Does he know she’s doing dangerous things here?” I needled him a little and saw the edge of his mustache quiver. Aha. So Higgins was unhappy with it too.

“I’m sure he’s _aware_ of it. Miss Munro can be somewhat . . . determined about maintaining her skills,” he harrumphed. “Perhaps we can draw up a schedule . . .”

I looked at the pad. “Right.” I copied his British way of saying it. “Shed-u-al.”

That didn’t win me any points; Higgins rolled his eyes and headed back into the main house. I waited until he’d gone before looking at a few of the reddish stains on the mat and wondering just how many times she’d missed. 

\--00--

So that’s when Daisy moved in. She was good to her word and I didn’t see her much for the first couple of weeks, usually out on the grounds or passing on our ways in and out. But I was between cases and a little bored so I decided to do some digging. Not snooping . . . per se. But info about Daisy Munro might give me a little more about Robin and that was always a good thing. So I checked on her.

Apparently Daisy’s full name was Daisy Olivia Munro and she’d been born in South Carolina to Simon and Danielle Munro. Simon was a professor of film studies at one of the private universities and I saw his name was listed in several of Robin’s books in the acknowledgements sections, so the family friend connection made sense. Her mom was a music teacher and played with a few local orchestras. How two cultured, highbrow parents had a kid who did stunts for a living was a mystery in itself.

But apparently Miss Munro double majored in theater and psychology at Winthrop and then worked her way west to Hollywood at various theaters until she reached California. After a year there, her history went cold. I couldn’t find anything for the next six years which was _weird_. If she was trying to get into show business there should have been something out there, some credits or listings or resumes. All I had was a listing for a phone number in the Holmby Hills area. 

And looking into THAT threw me against some major roadblocks. When I dialed it, the automated voice at the other end demanded an identification number which I didn’t have. For the moment I was stymied, but figured I could glean something through conversation. People like to talk about themselves if given half a chance. Case in point: Higgins. Nearly everything in life reminds him of something he’s gotta share.

So I made it a point to say hi. Nothing wrong with that, right? We were roommates, sort of, and we had a few things in common, like toast. The kind of toast a person likes is a great indicator of their philosophy. Higgins takes his nearly burnt, with a little charring around the edges. Me, I’m more a golden brown sort of person, and apparently Daisy was too. She liked toast, I liked toast, so it was a start.

“Best thing on toast is peanut butter and onions,” she told me. “Yum.”

I gave her a look. “What?”

“Peanut butter and red onion slices,” Daisy elaborated. “You’ve got a great mingle of flavors and textures, plus you’re getting three different foods all in one. Not overly sweet, like doughnuts; not all eggy like, well, eggs. Perfect breakfast.”

I stared at her. To my way of thinking, neither peanut butter nor onion was a breakfast food, but her enthusiasm was intriguing. She held out her toast to show perfectly spread peanut butter and wafer-thin slices of onion on top.

“What if you’ve got to kiss someone later?” I asked. Not that I’d intended to ask that but it was one of the first things that popped into my head. Freudian I guess but raw onion can be . . . lingering.

“Oh nobody kisses _me_ ,” Daisy replied and that stumped me a little. Couldn’t see why not—she was pretty and wouldn’t have any trouble getting a date that was for sure.

“That’s not true,” I countered. “The _dogs_ do.” Which was both a fact and a sore point. Zeus and Apollo adored Daisy. Me, they barely tolerated, but they’d roll over for belly rubs from her.

“Doggie kisses don’t count,” Daisy pointed out. “And I don’t kiss them back because even _I_ have my limits. You know what else is good? Bacon and peanut butter. Now that’s a winner too, especially on rye.”

Clearly this woman had evolved beyond cereal and milk, but the longer I thought about the combinations, the better they sounded . . . which meant either she was getting to me, or I was in a rut. Probably both if I’m being honest. Thinking about peanut butter was safer than thinking about kissing too.

**Daisy**

When Robin told me I couldn’t stay in the guest house because someone was already living there I was a little peeved. But when I asked and got the story about the bet and how Magnum managed to win, it tickled me so much that I got over pretty fast. My godfather, for all his other eccentricities, doesn’t welsh on bets and I respect that. And there were plenty of other bedrooms for me to stay in, so I took the one in the north corner because I could climb out on the veranda roof from it and watch the stars if I wanted.

Hawaii is gorgeous and I knew I was lucky to be able to stay here a while without worrying about . . . well, anything for the moment. If I was anywhere else I might have a few concerns, but between the Lads, Higgins and theoretically, Magnum, I was pretty safe. If I had to lay low, I could think of worse places to do it, honestly. 

And I had a _lot_ to think about, not that I wanted to. It’s weird, but just when you think you’ve got a good idea of where you’re going, life pushes you in a different direction. I’d left home for Hollywood only to find that the tinsel of that particular town wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, especially in the small and specialized world of stunts. I was too tall to double for kids, and most directors were perfectly happy to wig a guy instead of hiring me, even on the non-union sets. I spent time working out and working in gyms, trying to make ends meet . . . the usual sort of scratching out a living story although in my case it was getting more destitute.

Certain directors and producers were starting to make offers to me that might have been lucrative but not useful to the career, and I was getting desperate enough to consider them when I got help from an interesting quarter.

Jane Buchanan offered me a job. I knew her from the gym; she was one of my clients. Older woman in good shape with one of those queenly personalities. Some of my co-workers thought she was snobbish but I knew it was just her way. She paid well and took my suggestions seriously about her workouts so we got along. At some point though, I must have said something about my situation because the next time I saw her, she pressed a business card into my hand.

“Call and use the identification number on the back, Daisy. You _must_ come work for me,” she told me on her way out. 

I kept the card and three days later, when I was looking at a bank statement that was in single digits with no hope of getting bigger for at least three weeks, I called. Holmby Hills exchange from what I could see, and once I recited the number I was connected to someone called the Director.

Long story short, I went to work for Jane. Now I’m sure you’re wondering what sort of business it was, and let me assure you it wasn’t what you’re _probably_ thinking. I’d already been approached about that sort of work and turned it down before. Lots of girls in Hollywood have it as a side job, or do it for a while until their careers take off, but I wasn’t going to be one of them.

Anyway.

I ended up using both my stunt skills and my psychology while working at Casa de Làtigos so overall it was a good thing, actually. A lot of acting with room for improvisation; familiarity with slipknots; bonding with the clientele to a certain degree . . . and some personal growth, to be honest.

I’d gone into the work thinking I could be objective about it but the longer I worked for Jane, the more I realized I was getting emotionally involved with it.  
And that was dangerous. Doctors shouldn’t fall for patients; therapists shouldn’t fall for clients. I’d let one of my regulars get too close, and we were on the verge of crossing the line. Normally Jane would handle matters but I’d made the mistake of nearly getting involved for the wrong client, damn it; one who wasn’t about to agree to see someone else, or stop showing up. Things got ugly, what with threats and blackmail and finally I told Jane I was going on the lam for six months, back under my real name.   
She agreed it was for the best, and so I took off for Hawaii, letting Robin know.

I really don’t want to relive THAT particular phone call, ugh. He’d known—I don’t know HOW he knew but he’d _known_ what I’d been doing. And while he was trying his hardest not to be judgmental I could tell he didn’t really understand it. To be fair it’s hard to explain but at the very least he invited me to Robin’s Nest for the time being while I tried to figure how long I could stay under the radar.

I tried to stay out of Higgin’s way; he was always kind to me and I understood the need to keep some of that established protocol around him. He was polite and I was as quiet as I could be. What I _hadn’t_ counted on was Magnum of course.

When someone mentions a private investigator I automatically think of some guy looking like Humphrey Bogart or Robert Mitchum. You know, a sort of gruff loner with a drinking problem and a chip on his shoulder. I was NOT prepared for a curly-haired hunk with a mustache straight out of a Keystone cops movie. Wearing screamingly loud shirts and shorts no less. I mean really—that was NOT a private eye, no way.

But Higgins assured me he was, and I had to take him at his word. The worrisome part was the very fact that Magnum didn’t LOOK the part—and that meant I’d have to be careful around him. Anybody doing that ‘oh shucks never mind me’ sort of routine is probably a lot sharper than they look. I’ve met a few so I know the type, believe me.

So for the first couple of weeks it was just ‘hi, how are you?’ as we passed through the house, and that was fine. I had people to see—mostly little local studios doing small commercials and promos—and time at the gym. I tried not to be in the way and scooted out whenever Magnum showed up but we did both end up in the kitchen around breakfast time. Apparently Mr. Private Investigator hadn’t heard you could put other things on toast besides butter and jam. Watching his expression contort a little as I made my peanut butter and onion special was the most fun I’d had in a while.

But he wasn’t brave enough to try it . . . at least not yet. I’d never convince Higgins of course, but I might win Magnum over just by letting him get used to the idea. And that of course, was the core of what I’d been doing for the last couple of years anyway. Helping people get used to something that fascinated but worried them. Easing them into something new and potentially enticing.

I wasn’t sure if I was doing it on purpose, or just because I was used to making breakfast my way without anyone, but I had a debate with myself later, after I’d cleaned up and done the dishes. “You don’t need to make trouble,” I told myself quietly. “You’ve already got more than enough of that. Just keep your head down, Munro. The last thing you need right now are any _more_ complications.”

Easier said than done most of the time. I was just glad Higgins had put the _dangerous_ suitcase up in the attic.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thomas**

So about two weeks later I asked Daisy to be my wife. It took a while to talk her into it; she had plans for the afternoon but I sweetened the deal by offering a pizza and beer if she agreed to rearrange her schedule, especially if I agreed to extra cheese. With all that decided and sealed with a handshake, we took off for the Sweet Breezes condominium sales talk over in Waipahu, opting for her AMC Eagle instead of the Lamborghini. 

“So while I sit and listen to someone pitching me the merits of a split-level with a screened-in lanai and stucco ceilings, what are _you_ going to be doing?” Daisy wanted to know as I drove.

“ _I_ will be checking the office filing cabinets and any other place I can into,” I told her. “My client’s pretty sure the falsified building permits are stashed there.”

“So you’re breaking in?” she sounded interested instead of scandalized, which should have been my first warning sign.

“I’m not going to break anything. I’m going to . . . _investigate_. Possibly take photographs,” I muttered. “While _you_ smile and ask lots of questions about dryer hookups and neighborhood schools.”

It was sort of fun watching her roll her eyes. “The things I do for pizza,” Daisy muttered but nodded. We reached the building site a while later and got out, looking around. I noted that while the model seemed ready to show, most of the other lots were simply cleared dirt, and the earthmoving equipment was standing idle. 

Then the salesman came out, all white teeth and file folders. “Oh hey! You must be the Smiths!”

Daisy shot me a look. “The _Smiths_?” she said under her breath before turning to the guy and letting him pump her hand.

Okay it wasn’t the most original name but I didn’t have time to argue it as we were herded into the model and given the standard spiel, sped-up version. Despite that, Daisy did great, chatting and asking questions and giggling. The salesman (“Call me Irv!”) led us around and finally to the living room where three other couples were on folding chairs, looking up as we came in. None of the guys looked particularly thrilled but the women were sure focused. I made sure to take the chair closest to the door and tried to look interested.

Daisy was still talking to the sales guy and I saw her lean in, her expression looking a little concerned. Irv nodded, gave me a quick glance of what I think was pity, and then moved to the front of the living room as Daisy came to sit beside me.

“What was _that_ all about?” I whispered.

“Told him you had, uh, some bladder issues,” Daisy admitted. “Now he won’t wonder when you step out.”

I glared at her. “Thanks,” I growled, even though it was a pretty good ploy all told. Given that Daisy was holding the fort just fine I figured I had time enough to find what I needed out in the business trailer. I wasn’t prepared when she leaned forward and kissed the tip of my nose. 

“No worries, Tomcat,” she replied brightly just as I realized the couple sitting in front of us were watching.

“Right,” muttered and we both faced Irv and the presentation.

To make a long story short, I found the falsified files, took the photos and made it back to Daisy without raising any suspicions. Then she took every brochure Irv gave her, promised a follow-up meeting and proceeded to shred each one of them on the drive back to Robin’s Nest, tearing the glossy pages into long strips.

“What a creep,” Daisy growled. “If you don’t get him on bad records I’m sure there’s something in the zoning that’s off, and the way he shoved aside the questions about environmental studies, ha! So what happens next?”

“Next I hand over the evidence to my client and collect a fee,” I replied trying to gloss over that part. By rights I should be happy but her comments about the zoning bothered me, as did the equipment. Something about those earthmovers didn’t seem right.

Ordering pizza must send out telepathic waves because Rick showed up the same time the pie did, and Daisy gave into his puppy looks before I could say no. We ate and washed the slices down with beer, chatting.

“Oh yeah, that whole condo thing _stinks_ ,” Rick told me. “I heard that Bremer Enterprises was pissed they got outbid and were planning to get even.”

I tried not to cough; Arlene Bremer was my client.

“Get even _how_?” Daisy asked, twirling cheese around her index finger.

Rick shrugged and helped himself to a second slice. “Dunno, some sort of sabotage. It’s a _family_ thing I heard.”

“Wait, a family thing?” I asked, trying to be nonchalant. 

“Yeah a feud,” Rick replied. “Arlene and Irving Bremer are twins. Been fighting since birth is how the story goes. Remember when the Nihoa Spa went under? All those accusations of bribed inspectors and dangerous chemicals? It was because of them. Got any more beer?”

Now I was concerned. After we’d finished the pizza and Rick left, promising to have us over for barbecue at the Club, I considered returning to Sweet Breezes.

“You know, we really should go _back_ to those condos,” Daisy announced. I wondered if she had mind-reading powers even as I shook my head.

“Not we, _me_. Or _I_ as the case may be,” I argued. “You already did your part.”

“But I can still be helpful,” she countered. “I already know the place, I have a dumpy car nobody will notice and I’m just as curious as you are.”

“You know what they say about curiosity,” I grumbled, sensing I was going to lose this battle.

“Yes, Curiosity is an imperious tyrant and _will_ be obeyed,” Daisy replied, grinning at me. “Come on, let’s go.”

It was easier to agree than keep arguing; we made it back to the site just after sunset, pulling up into the parking lot across the street. A chain link fence surrounded the place but I figured I could climb it easily enough.

“You stay here,” I told the empty air over my shoulder because Daisy had already sprinted across the street and was halfway up the fence. At least she waited for me to get over it before smirking.

“Anything you can do I can do better,” Daisy threw at me.

“Not true. Frankly I’m sure I can pee on a wall better than you can,” I snapped back. Normally I’m not that vulgar but to be fair I was angry and felt a need to let her know it. 

She gaped at me and then laughed. “I’ll give you _that_. Okay, what do we check out first?”

And just like that I was back in charge. I hoped. I pointed my chin to the bulldozer. “Those.”

We quietly made our way over to the nearest one, and I climbed up on the seat, looking at the dashboard.

“And?” Daisy called up to me.

“It’s wrong,” I told her quietly feeling my hunch confirmed. “It’s a track loader. Too small for surface grading, which is what you do for construction. This is _mining_ equipment.”

“So what’s it doing _here_?” she wanted to know but before I could answer, floodlights came on, nearly blinding us both.

**Daisy**

Sometimes I really regret being as impulsive as I am. I could have been in bed back at Robin’s Nest instead of being tied up spine to spine with Magnum on the dingy closet floor of the condominium model. But then again he’d still be in trouble either way, and I had at least _one_ advantage he didn’t.

I knew the ropes. That is, I knew my way around ropes. And the stuff we’d been tied up with was cheap polyester rope in bright yellow—the same sort used in construction sites everywhere. It’s thick, it’s woven and quite honestly, it’s hard to knot well.

When we first got tied up, I bunched up my muscles just like I’d been taught to increase bulk. Once Irv—yes it was Irv, our sales representative who’d caught us—I relaxed and felt some slack.

Magnum felt the slack too and started struggling.  
“Stop!” I told him. “Look I can get loose but you have to stay still and let me _concentrate_ , okay?”

“You’re sure?” he tried to turn his head.

“Yes, I’m sure. Okay, here’s what I’m going to do. I want you to brace your feet on the wall you’re facing,’ I said. “I’ll do the same on the other side. I’m going to walk my feet up as high as I can while I shrug down and out against your spine. You have to brace your back _against_ me. If I can get one shoulder free, the rope should loosen enough to slip off. Got it?”

It took him a second to visualize it but Magnum agreed. “Got it.”

“Okay,” I let out a deep breath, reached out my feet, and started to wriggle. The rope shifted incrementally, and I took that as a sign to keep going. Bit by bit I moved my feet up, using the muscles in my legs to force my torso down. My shirt slid up, but I managed to shift nearly four inches and the topmost coil of the rope was close enough to my shoulder for me to grab with my teeth.

I bit into it and pulled it up as I pushed hard against Magnum’s back. He did his part, bracing firmly while wonder of wonders, the rope loosened. I ducked my head under the coil and wiggled; the rest of the coils gave up slack. I got an arm free and began getting out, trying hard not to let some of the other sensations get to me.

Rope. Yeah, I knew my way around rope and now was NOT the time to get into a zone about it that was for sure. I pulled another coil off of myself and felt Magnum shifting, finally getting one of his hands free.

We sat up, shrugging off the rest of the rope.

“Smoke,” I pointed out. “We have to hurry.”

“Yeah.” He braced himself against one of the walls and crouched there, his head touching the shelf over it. “Let’s get out.”

Good old Irv had dragged one of the chairs and braced it against the closet knob, but we managed to knock it free with a few good kicks, and then we were out and in a lot more smoke. I motioned the way through the kitchen and out the back, which must have been the route Irv took because the sliding glass door was open.

One more climb over the fence and we bolted for the car, both of us scratched, smoky and in my case, pissed as hell. “Damn it! He tried to KILL us!” I growled.

Magnum looked grim. “Yes, I was _there_ , remember?”

“We need to call the fire department,” I started to get out of the car, but he shook his head.

“There’s a Seven Eleven down the road with a payphone; we’ll call from there.”

We did and headed back to Robin’s Nest just in time to find Higgins standing on the front porch, looking like a granite statue of disapproval personified.  
“Miss Munro; Magnum,” his frosty voice chilled us. “What on EARTH—"

I took a breath. “There are no words I can offer to excuse my foolishness this evening, sir. I assure you that Mr. Magnum did his best to dissuade me from coming along and I alone am responsible for that. In light of my disgrace I will hie myself to the confines of my bedroom and reconsider my actions in a repentant light.”

I made a little bow and moved past him as contritely as I could, well-aware that both Magnum and Higgins were staring at me as I did so.

“Hie herself?” I heard Magnum echo. “ _Hie_ herself?”

“A perfectly functional if somewhat archaic verb meaning to move oneself quickly, Magnum. What in God’s name have you two been _doing_ , and why do you both smell like a moldering barbecue?”

“Higgins--"

That was all I heard as I headed up, eager for a bath and a chance to forget the entire evening.

So I soaked, and tried not to think about the rope, and succeeded right up until I climbed into bed and dropped off. When you’re awake you can direct your thoughts; when you’re not, parts of your brain take over, sending you on strange trips through scenarios that can both terrify and chide. I shouldn’t have been surprised to find myself trying to get out of the back room in Casa de Làtigos, knowing Isaac was coming for me, working hard to find doors that were too small and windows too high.

Woke myself up with a little yell and stayed wrapped in the blankets until dawn, when I finally slunk down to the kitchen for breakfast.

Magnum was already there. Handed me a piece of freshly popped toast.

I went to the fridge, torn for a moment, and then chose the jar of grape jelly. He watched me smear it on the warm bread for a moment and he wasn’t smiling as he arched an eyebrow at me, pointedly looking at my breakfast.

“I . . . don’t want to talk about it,” I mumbled.

He shrugged and buttered his own slice before speaking. “Thank you for your . . . Houdini skills.”

“You’re welcome,” I replied, aware that he was biding his time. I risked a look at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Magnum told me. “I didn’t say anything.”

“But you were _going_ to,” I groused.

“Well now that you mention it,” he began, “I’m curious how you figured out how to get free. I mean, most people don’t have the ability to think out a step by step plan of that kind.”

“Stunt-person,” I countered automatically. “Kind of have to deal with bondage in the business.”

“Really?”

“Yep,” I wanted to shut this conversation down pronto. “Lassoing, knots, trick roping. You know—all that Will Rogers John Wayne kind of stuff.”

Magnum nodded and I relaxed, right up until he spoke again as he studied his toast. “Yeah, except . . . stunt people call it escapology, Daisy. Not bondage.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Thomas**

Part of working in Intelligence was the understanding that even the biggest network is composed of individuals. Human beings. That all of the data coming in comes from people who sleep and eat and drink and live lives that might be similar or very different from yours, but that they were all individuals.

Every person is different. If I had to use an example, I’d choose say, myself and Higgins. We’re both men, we’re both veterans, we both have mustaches. But under those superficial similarities, we’re incredibly separate people. I like sports, and pulp fiction and Dutch beer while Higgins likes opera and military history and a fancy glass of Madeira in the evenings. I like a casual approach to life while he’s a lot more dedicated to agendas and schedules.

And down underneath even those aspects are the drives and desires that form a person. Layers we don’t often think about or consider because some of it’s not noble or admirable. Things that have made us what we are. For me a lot of it centers on loss. What’s down in Higgin’s murk I can’t say but if I had to guess it’s probably a lot of loneliness.

Point being, every person has a darker side and how we deal with it says a lot about who we are. Higgins has capped his and keeps a close watch on it. Me, I lock it up because going down into that cesspool never does me much good. Oh I can’t avoid it all the time, and I’ve gotten to a point where I have to set aside a day or two to deal with it on my own because I know if I don’t it will catch up with me when I least expect it to. I cope with Dad and Mac and Michelle during those times.

I’m also well-aware I have the potential to be an evil person. I’ve tapped into it a few times. Not proud of that, but at the time the ends justified the means and I made the choice not only to use that darkness, but to claw my way back out of it too.

I bring this up because libido is a part of that baggage we all carry. Men never fully lose the capacity to be animals and while we don’t admit it, we’re all fascinated by the darker side of sex. As an Intelligence officer I had more than my share of exposure to it through reports and briefings and honey traps set by and set for the enemy. Long-winded but what I’m getting at is yes, I knew something about bondage. 

And I was starting to suspect that Daisy did too.

Which suddenly made the address in Holmby Hills a lot more interesting along with the years that she was there. If my suspicions were correct, then our guest here at Robin’s Nest had a background much more out of the ordinary. 

Kind of a dilemma. By rights she was entitled to her privacy. I got that. But at the same time, part of me was curious and worried. Why was she here? What had brought her away from California and to Hawaii? What sort of place had she come from?

And most persistent of all: was she really . . . that way?

It nagged at me, despite my trying to push the thought away. I worked at staying busy for the next few weeks, putting in time on the range, hanging out with TC and Rick, going for long trips out on the water. But the harder I tried to run from the question, more it got in my face.

Part of it was natural nosiness. Part of it was the need for answers. Part of it I didn’t want to look at too closely, afraid of seeing something in myself I wasn’t ready to stare at.

\--oo—

Higgins roped me into helping set up for the High Tea Fundraiser, which wasn’t a big deal since it meant moving lawn furniture and getting on his good side while doing it. Sometimes being tall helps, and in this case I knew I owed him the favor so I strung tea lights and patiently shifted things to the right or to the left according to Agatha’s wishes. At least she’s sweet about it so I don’t mind as much.

I hadn’t seen much of Daisy since her quick exit from the kitchen a few weeks back and that was fine. I’d gotten word of Arlene Bremer’s arrest for arson at the Sweet Wind Condominiums along with Irv Bremer’s arrest for unlicensed ore mining and somehow managed to have her check to clear before either of them could think to cancel it. Most of the money went straight back out again towards bills but that was nothing new in my world.

Since the High Tea was a big deal I knew enough to make myself scarce, so after I got the tables and umbrellas up I headed back to the guest house all the better to lose myself in a novel. As I passed through the living room though, I spotted Daisy coming my way in a pale dress.

I’d never seen her in a dress before. It was . . . frilly. Very light fluffy stuff. Girly, in a word. And because I was used to Daisy being in shorts or jeans this new look threw me for a moment. “Ah, hi.”

“Hi,” she returned, looking a little strained. “I feel like an idiot.”

“You don’t look like one,” I assured her, noting her dark red hair was pinned up with a few tempting little curls along the base of her neck. “You’re going to the party, huh?”

“Agatha invited me,” Daisy admitted. “She and I have a mutual friend and I guess she was . . . encouraged to keep an eye on me.” There was resentment in that tone right there.

“Friends look out for each other,” I reminded her. “And the food will be good. I may have to check out any leftovers later on. In fact---”

“Yes I’ll save you some,” Daisy snickered and like that she was smiling again. “Oh! Higgins wanted you to bring down a few of the citronella lamps from the attic when you could . . .” she called over her shoulder.

I sighed. “On it.”

The lamps were in a cardboard box, clearly marked in Higgins’ handwriting. I shifted it, all the better to get a good grip before carrying it down when something else in the attic caught my eye and I stared.

I knew most of the stuff up here—I’d made it a point to check out the attic when I’d first moved in, mostly so I’d be aware of any vulnerable access points to the estate. Higgins was good about the ground level but I knew from experience that trouble could come from unexpected directions, and it made sense to know the full layout of the house. The attic ran the length of the roof and while did didn’t have windows there were a few ventilation grids on either end well protected by the eaves. That meant there wasn’t much light other than the overhead bulb.

And in that light right now I was looking at an unfamiliar suitcase.

**Daisy**

‘It’s a small world’ isn’t just a saying or a ride in Disneyland; it’s a reality. I had no idea that Agatha Chumley and my former employer Jane Buchanan knew each other but given that they were both British women of a certain age I guess it was more likely than not. And just as I liked Jane, I liked Agatha as well—she was friendly in that slightly dotty expat way. I hadn’t intended on going to the High Tea but it was her personal invitation that did it.

We shared a table while we waited for the other guests to show up, and Agatha asked me about myself. I gave her my scripted answers but something in her smile told me she probably knew what Jane’s business was in Hollywood.

“She always _was_ the high-spirited one,” Agatha murmured. “Ringleader of everything. Jane once talked me into practicing my archery on the coconuts outside of Miss Paddington’s Academy just to annoy the groundskeeper.”

“Sounds like her,” I agreed. “So how long have you lived in Hawaii?”

“Oooh, ages. Father brought us here shortly after my sister and I were born in Battersea. About every five years or so we’d go for an extended visit but always returned. My parents were extremely fond of these islands.”

“Were you here during . . . ?” I wasn’t sure how to ask, but Agatha knew what I meant and nodded.

“Oh yes. I was twelve at the time. Terribly frightening, seeing all those ships sinking in the harbor,” she murmured and I could see her expression shift, her eyes magnified behind her big lenses. “Mother, Charlotte, and I volunteered at the hospital, mostly stocking supplies since all the orderlies and nurses were with patients. My father was managing the Grand sugar plantation in Waipahu and we didn’t see him for nearly two weeks after the attack.”

I laid a hand on hers out of sympathy; she squeezed it and smiled a moment later. “It’s all right, you know—I’m not afraid to talk about it. It’s important to remember these things.”

It was a great afternoon. I met several lovely people, and even got to play croquet—I was on Higgin’s team—in the fundraiser part of the tea. By the time it was dark and the guests were gone I was in a pretty mellow mood and feeling happy. As promised, I made a big plate of the best leftovers and carried it over to the guest house, hoping Magnum hadn’t lied about liking cucumber and watercress sandwiches.

He answered the door and invited me in, offering up one of his beers.

“So how was it?” he wanted to know.

“Fun,” I admitted. “I like Agatha, and while I suck at croquet at least we didn’t come in last.”

“Higgins would have been massively cranky if you had,” Magnum agreed, handing me a bottle. “It’s one of his blood sports.”

That made me laugh, mostly because Magnum was right. Higgins had tucked his croquet mallet under one arm like a crop while he gave us our pep talk and the image stuck with me.

“It was still a blast. And Agatha is very gracious,” I mused. “Did you know she was here in Hawaii during Pearl Harbor?”

“No,” Magnum admitted, looking a little startled. “Really?”

“As a girl, but yeah,” I took another sip of the beer. “Talk about living through history.”

“To hear Higgins talk, he’s lived through most of it everywhere else,” Magnum told me with one of those quick grins of his. He uncovered the plate of sandwiches and as we went through our beers he ate most of them. Nicely though, not just jamming them down the way some guys would have. It was twilight now, and I was starting to feel comfortable, lounging on the sofa and enjoying the beer.

“So why are _you_ here?” Magnum asked me finally in one of those conversational lulls. “In Hawaii I mean. It’s got an entertainment industry but not a big one. Not enough for full-time work, anyway.”

I sighed, rolling the bottle between my hands. “You got me. I’m . . . laying low and avoiding . . . a man.”

“Oh,” he managed a gentle tone. “One of _those_ stories.”

“Not quite,” I sighed. “I’m not in danger . . . really. He’ll find someone new if I stay out of the picture. Not the only fish in the sea, not the only nawashi around, you know?”

“Ah, yeah,” Magnum murmured, taking the empty bottle from me. “Well you’re safe here.”

“Mostly,” I agreed, yawning a little. “Sorry; I’m susceptible to beer and I ought to go to bed. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Thanks for the sandwiches,” he told me. “Need me to walk you to the house?”

I made a face at him. “I may be in a dress but I’m not THAT girly. I can make it there just fine. Night, Magnum.”

And yeah, I got to my room, took a shower and got into bed, feeling pretty good. It didn’t hit me until after I was thinking back on the day that something was a little out of place. Was it something I did? Something I said?

It took me a while to drop off.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thomas**

If you ever want to shock Lieutenant Tanaka of the Honolulu police department, try throwing out the word ‘nawashi.’ I got a stunned glare and a lot of shuffling around as a quick response to my question. 

“Where the hell did you hear _that_?” he finally asked me. I did my best to look innocent but the two of us knew each other too well to pull it off, so I stopped trying pretty quickly. 

“Right now I can’t say, but it’s nothing to do with a case,” I assured him. He looked only slightly mollified by that. “So what does it mean?”

Now he looked . . . apprehensive. I gave him time, planting my feet in a way that told him I wasn’t going anywhere until I got an answer and that seemed to move things along.

“It’s Japanese. An old term that means ‘rope maker,’” Tanaka muttered rubbing his chin, “but in reality it means a helluva lot _more_ than that, Magnum. I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into but this isn’t something . . . normal.”

“Rope maker. As in . . . bondage?” I prodded, about ninety percent sure now that I was on the right track.

Tanaka gave a little sigh, his mouth twisting up. “Bingo. And not your average ‘tie me to the bedposts’ kind of stuff either. We’re talking about Kinbaku-- the sort of intricate work done by interrogators and torturers since the Edo period. The sort of work you see in clubs that cater to very rich and very dangerous people. Yakuza dangerous.”

That sent a quick jolt down my spine but I did my best to shrug it off. “This doesn’t involve any clubs. It’s just a term I heard someone use in passing and I was curious.”

Tanaka gave me one of those keen-eyed stares of his and I met it. Finally he gave a little sigh. “Okay, fine. But it’s not a term that’s thrown around lightly. A nawashi is a specialist, Magnum. They’re well-paid professionals and not always on the straight and narrow, so whoever used it probably knows more than they’re saying.”

“Professionals?” I tried to sound mildly curious but underneath I felt another jolt as the connection between danger, ropes, and Daisy got a little stronger.

“You don’t pick up skills like these in an afternoon from a manual,” Tanaka muttered. “And like a lot of other expressive forms of Japanese culture it gets misinterpreted. It’s _not_ ,” he sighed, “for amateurs. So watch yourself.”

The fact that Tanaka was warning me had me reconsidering my next steps but now I was more than curious; I was concerned. I took myself to the public library, asked a few questions and ended up being escorted to the restricted book cage and left with a one hour time period to look over the two related items that the librarian had found for me.

The first one was a privately printed book all in Japanese but filled with illustrations of particular knots and bindings carefully drawn with step by step directions. I couldn’t read it, but it was easy to get the gist of the instructions.

The other item was a black and white magazine from the nineteen Fifties with glossy photos and all of a sudden the reality of the art was right there under my fingertips. Page after page of half-dressed women trussed up in exotic ties and positions. I’d be a liar if I denied that some of the images had me aroused; it had been a while since I’d seen exposed flesh, and none of the women here looked distressed or scared.

And that got to me. Most of them had a sort of glazed dispassionate expression, a sort of otherworldly look that made it clear they were a part of what was going on. Partners in the act so to speak, dangling or draped like exotic ornaments.<

Now what the lieutenant said made sense. This wasn’t pornography the way I understood it, no this was something on a different level. Still highly erotic, but much more sophisticated than your average copy of Playboy. This was an art and a discipline, albeit a disturbing one.

I left before my time was up, thanking the librarian who seemed unfazed by the request. I guess there were other items in the restricted books cage that probably made this look tame by comparison. Still, as I drove back home, I thought about the suitcase in the attic and debated once again about looking inside it.

Now, of course I had to factor in the knowledge that Daisy was in hiding, and from the sound of it, from someone who was a part of her past and part of this bondage scene. I could justify it on the basis of estate security I suppose—if pushed I could always claim that. But given that Robin had invited Daisy to stay here it might not hold much water. I wondered if Robin knew about what Daisy was doing too, and offered her sanctuary as much to get her out of the business as anything else.

Wasn’t sure what to say—if anything—to Higgins. Sure he’s stuffy and cantankerous but scarily intuitive when it comes to picking up my train of thought. One question about kinbaku and he’d probably insist on alerting Robin or confronting Daisy, neither of which would be good.

When I got back to Robin’s Nest nobody was around. There were three messages on my answering machine: one potential client who wanted me to check out a marriage counseling scam; a request from TC to call him back; and a time-share salesman. I knew it was the morning Higgins went to play bridge at the Palms, and that Daisy’s AMC wasn’t in the garage so I had the place to myself.

I went up to the attic.

The suitcase was an American Tourister in dull tan, with latches and a tag on the handle. I checked it: _D. Munro_ , no listed address. Carefully I set the suitcase on its side, facing away from me and reached to undo the latches. I wasn’t expecting a bomb but I wasn’t taking any chances either, especially after all I’d learned. I pulled the top up and glanced over it, into the depths of the suitcase.

Sunglasses. Leather gloves. Very expensive black lace lingerie. Under that, rope. Neatly coiled, pale cotton, cut into lengths with knotted ends. And under that, a Beretta 950.

 _Now_ I had questions.

**Daisy**

I had signed up with the only talent agency on Oahu and they got me small bits of work here and there, mostly based on the stunt work on my resume. I’d been in a car commercial where I surfed on the hood of a moving vehicle, and climbed a coconut tree in a Ginger Grant costume to help promote some local channel’s reruns of Gilligan’s Island. Silly stuff, but it was bringing a little money in and I didn’t object to showing off a bit. 

Currently I was in the running for a jump out of a helicopter onto a floating target for Golden Doll Suntan lotion. The producer wanted to paint me gold, sort of like the woman in the Bond movie. Tricky—I knew body paint had gotten better since nineteen sixty-four, but it could still be uncomfortable since it would stop me from sweating and staying cool. I gave in though, especially when they offered to pay me extra for it. I’d even get to try out the paint beforehand as well, and that clinched matters. As I drove back to Robin’s Nest with a few cans of the spray, I was feeling a little achy, and when I shifted in the car seat, I suddenly realized why as the trickle wetted the inside of my thigh.

Damn it. 

I made it home and inside before I stained the car seat but I knew I was going to have to do some hard cold scrubbing to get the blood out of my jeans. Usually I keep track better than this but between the move and being busy I hadn’t been paying attention much. I slunk in, grateful that Higgins wasn’t around and stripped out in the bathroom. One pair of sweats later I felt the cramps begin in earnest, and that sent me on a hunt for Midol. There was nothing in any of the upstairs bathrooms and I was making a circuit of the downstairs ones, feeling crappier by the minute.

I found a first aid kit but all it had as aspirin which I knew wouldn’t do me much good. I didn’t really want to get back in the car and go to the market, which left one possibility, so I made my way over to the guest house, fingers crossed. “Magnum? Are you in?”

It took a few minutes for him to answer the door and when he did I tried to smile. “Ah, this is really embarrassing but do you have any . . . pain reliever? Something besides aspirin?”

“Headache?” he blurted and I rolled my eyes.

Men. Good lord.

Apparently my expression was enough to clue him in and Magnum blushed, backing up to let me in. “Ohhh, um, let me go check.”

I wandered down the stairs after him, feeling bloated and debating on a nap. There seemed to be a rubber chicken on the coffee table so I picked it up, making it hoot softly. Magnum came back a few minutes later with two bottles and a glass of water.

“I’ve got Tylenol and some Midol . . .”

I’m embarrassed at how fast I snagged the meds out of his hands. Only took me a moment to chug two Midol down and wash them along with the water, draining the cup before handing everything back to him. “Thanks. I really _needed_ those.”

“I could tell,” he muttered but didn’t look grossed out, which helped. “Need a heating pad too?”

That’s when I stared at Magnum. “Do you have one?”

He’d had it tucked under his arm and handed it to me.

I clutched it to my chest, almost in tears at this point. “I owe you,” I muttered, “ _big_ time for this. Next time you need a fake wife, just let me know.”

“I’ll _do_ that. Might be sooner than you think,” Magnum told me with that sort of wry grin he does so well. He took the rubber chicken from me, and we just looked at each other for one of those long assessing moments. Hazel eyes and thick lashes. I’ve always been kind of a sucker for hazel eyes.

“Okay then,” I sighed and turned for the stairs. A long nap with that heating pad were in my immediate future. “Thank you, Tomcat.”

“I’m not a tomcat,” he groused. I shifted on the stairs, looking down at him.

“Sure you are . . . confident; studly; prone to getting into scraps; assuredly un-neutered.”

The rubber chicken gave a very loud squawk as Magnum strangled it and I laughed the rest of the way up the stairs and back to the main house.

Once I got to my room I stretched out, plugged in the heating pad and took a nap, hoping I’d bypass the worst of the cramps. After all, I had gold paint to try out in a few hours.


	5. Chapter 5

**Thomas**

Now wasn’t the time to ask Daisy questions; I knew too much about the effects of a period on a woman’s mood to take the risk, especially since there was a gun involved. Still I was kind of touched that I could help out a little, and I made it a point to leave the Midol bottle out on the kitchen counter for her to find later. 

I listened again to the messages on my machine and returned TC’s call. He wanted to know if I had the money I owed him and because I actually did I made it a point to drive out and pay him back, hanging out for a while and building up a little goodwill. The secret to being able to borrow money is paying it back consistently and while I’ve relied on his goodwill more than once it does feel good to do the right thing. 

When I got back it was late afternoon; Higgins came out to meet me, and he didn’t look happy. That’s his default look so I wasn’t surprised, but his first words startled me.  
“The Lads are restless,” he told me. “And I am concerned.”

“Restless how?” I wanted to know. Much as I had a grudging tolerance for the Dobermans I didn’t actually dislike them. They were all in all good dogs when they weren’t affectionately threatening my hamstrings.

“They have retrieved several dead birds of late and seem especially uneasy after dark. I suspect someone is using an ultrasonic whistle in the vicinity,” Higgins replied, looking out along the estate wall. “I’m loathe to let them out after nightfall.”

I followed his sightline and nodded. “Let me have a look on the other side of the perimeter and see if I can spot anything.”

Higgins nodded. “That would be most appreciated. I know you aren’t particularly fond of Zeus and Apollo but they’re only doing the job they were bred to do, and cannot be faulted for that.”

I nodded. “I may not find anything, but it’s worth a look.”

I’d done a few perimeter checks before but hadn’t done one in a while so I started from the beach side and worked my way around the stone walls and foliage-covered fence. I saw a lot of geckos and lizards but nothing else particularly suspicious until I got to the corner near Kalaniana’ole highway where the oleander and hibiscus form an added hedge. 

The space between the fencing and the bushes made a natural shelter and I noted the dirt underfoot was disturbed. Nothing incriminating like a cigarette butt, but I could sense someone had been here, and recently. Just a vibe, but it left me wary as well.

I made a note to stay up and check again after dark.

After confirming as much to Higgins I called the client—Aaron Santos-- asking about the marriage counseling scam and got the details. Seems he and his wife had been duped into attending a retreat at the Rolling Waves Hotel and had been talked into a few therapy sessions that resulted in photos of the blackmail variety. Fortunately he and his wife had reached their own sort of breakthrough and refused to pay, but now they wanted someone to check into the counselors and possibly get them shut down.

Not normally my sort of case, really, but there were two factors that made me consider it: firstly, having just repaid TC I was short on funds again, and secondly, I had a fake wife so I could manage the undercover part of it. I told Santos I’d call back in twenty-four hours with a decision. If Daisy was willing to play along, as she’d offered, I’d have a pretty good chance of getting enough evidence to crack it. And hanging out at the Rolling Waves might be nice, if only for a night or two.

I was considering what to do for dinner when Daisy showed up at the door and it took me a moment say anything because she was gold. As in, completely _gold_. Face, shoulders, arms . . . the woman was wearing shorts and a tank top and I could see where the splatters of the paint ended at her shoulder straps. Honestly? It took a lot of effort on my part not to stare at the gleam of her cleavage. She hadn’t sprayed her hair though, so that was still dark red, and looked pretty good contrasting with the paint.

“I’m pretty sure Jill Masterson was a blonde,” I couldn’t help pointing out.

Daisy made a face. “A _peroxide_ one. I need help with the back of my legs, and this isn’t the sort of thing I can ask Higgins to assist with.”

“No,” I agreed. “Ah, dumb question but why? Are you auditioning for a Bond film?”

“I _wish_ ,” Daisy sighed, and told me about the Golden Doll Suntan lotion commercial. We went down to the beach and she handed me the spray can. I knelt down, feeling a little weird but Daisy was chattering away and I . . . sprayed.

This was a woman I now knew was involved with bondage. A woman with a hidden gun and a hidden agenda and I was painting her extremely nice legs . . . gold.

Life gets weird sometimes.

Anyway just as I finished, I heard the fading hiss of the canister and warned her, “I think you’re out of paint.”

“Yeah they only gave me the one can,” Daisy sighed. “Still, most of me is covered and it’s not itchy. How do I look?”

“Like you should be dating an Oscar.”

“That would be as close as I’ll ever get to one,” she sighed, holding out an arm. “Ah well. I’ll give it an hour and then shower it off I guess.”

“Kind of a waste,” I pointed out. “You should get a couple of photos at least.”

So that’s how we ended up doing an impromptu shoot on the lawn in the fading light. After the first couple of shots, Higgins came out and the sight of him staring at Daisy was nearly everything I hoped it would be. “Miss Munro . . .” he began, and sort of stopped.

“Does this remind you of the time in Burma, when you hid from invading forces in a carved alcove behind a twenty foot Buddha of solid gold?” I asked him in my most innocent voice.

“No, although I seem to recall . . .” he started and then snapped. “However now is _not_ the time. Miss Munro, why on _earth_ are you covered in paint?”

“Because in a few days I’m going to be jumping out of a helicopter onto a floating target to help sell suntan lotion of course,” Daisy replied. “Isn’t it _obvious_?”

I could barely hold the camera still as Higgins blinked. “Not really, no.”

“Ah, well that’s often the case,” Daisy replied. “So what’s making the dogs upset?”

Higgins looked at me and I shook my head; I hadn’t said a word to her.

“Maybe you haven’t noticed but they’re kind of off their usual mood. Zeus almost _snapped_ at me the other day,” Daisy went on. “Are they okay?”

Higgins sighed. “I’m not certain what might be agitating them, Miss Munro, but Magnum and I are looking into the matter. Rest assured your safety is paramount. May I assume you will be needing extra towels when the time comes to . . . de-gild yourself?”

“Yes, old ones if you can spare them,” Daisy agreed. “Thank you. In truth, you’re a very good sport, Mr. Higgins.”

He gave her a brief smile, gave me a stern look, and slipped back into the house. 

Daisy shook her head, grinning. “Why do I get the feeling he puts up with a lot more around here than meets the eye?”

“Mostly because he does,” I admitted, grinning back. I was starting to like this woman.

**Daisy**

It took about an hour to get all the gold off of me, and even then I was sure I’d have smudges and traces in a lot of places I wouldn’t see until morning. I gave up, dried off and went to sleep, straight into a nightmare.

Isaac of course, coming after me and lying in that oh so soft voice of his. I managed to evade him or so I thought—at the last minute I struggled, only to wake up, tangled in the sheet.

So I cried a little and went out on the roof.

One of the nicer parts of Hawaii is the night sky; you could really see the stars and the moonlight lit the slow incoming waves. I watched them for a while, letting my breathing calm down, wishing I was tied up. Just a little. Enough to zone me out a bit and relax. That was part of the problem right there of course. Some people had valium or booze or weed; I had to be the one with a restraint response.

I got up and was about to make my way back into the window when I heard a noise, so moving carefully I peeked around the corner of the house, making sure I had a good grip on the sill as I leaned out.

From that position I could see the side lawn, and the stone fence around it looking peaceful in the moonlight. I could see the guesthouse too, and part of the highway . . . and Magnum. He was crouched low in the shadow of the guesthouse porch and seemed to be focused towards the gate.

I listened hard. Right on the edge of my hearing I thought I heard something that wasn’t rustling palms or rolling waves. Just the faintest hint of a pitch that my mother would have heard easily. I looked towards the road.

Magnum sprinted across the lawn just as I did and managed the distance quicker than I would have guessed, side hopping the fence and diving into the hibiscus with a rustle of branches. I wondered what the hell he was doing when suddenly the sounds of a fight carried through the night. 

I made it through the window, down the stairs and out onto the lawn myself in short order, stopping short when I heard a seriously pained grunt and then the rev of an engine. I darted forward, aware that I didn’t have a weapon but not willing to run just yet. When I jumped and peeked over the wall, I saw Magnum on the ground, nose bloody as a car took off.

“How badly are you hurt?” I asked, sliding over the wall to help him sit up. He gave a shake of his head, flinging a few blood drops as he got to his feet.

“I’m okay,” he told me, glaring after the car. “What are you doing out here?”

“Chasing after you,” I pointed out. “You’re not the only one who stays up after midnight once in a while. Who was that?”

Magnum didn’t answer me, but he waved to a spot near the wall, and I saw something in the dirt: A dog whistle.

\--oo00oo—

What it came down to was that I had to go in to talk to Lieutenant Tanaka, and explain exactly why I was at Robin’s Nest. I would have preferred to do that privately, but Magnum pointed out that since he was in charge of estate security—technically anyway—he was within the ‘need to know’ circle.

“I . . . worked in Los Angeles for a private club that catered to people in the, ah, upper tax bracket,” I sighed. “ _Not_ an escort service or anything sexual, just so you understand. More along the lines of exotic entertainment. Anyway, to make a long story short one client ended up getting infatuated with me and I . . . didn’t handle it well. I ended up taking a leave of absence from the club in hopes that he would leave me alone.”

“Exotic entertainment,” the lieutenant repeated, and looked at me. 

“Nyotaimori,” I murmured. “Balloons. Bikini boxing. All looking, no touching.”

All of us were blushing now. 

The lieutenant looked at me. “Kinbaku?”

I nodded, and he shook his head. “Damn it, Miss Munro, my guess is that you’ve got a stalker. I can arrange for a few more patrols along the highway but beyond that unless something happens . . .”

“Nothing will,” Magnum broke in. “Now that we know he’s out there we’ll catch him.”

“Isaac isn’t violent,” I told them. “Just . . . obsessive. And we don’t actually know it’s _him_. There could be other people interested in getting onto the estate.”

“Yeah well I’m going with Occam’s Razor on this one, Miss Munro,” the lieutenant murmured. “In the meantime I’d like you to fill out a report.”

He left to get the paperwork and I risked a glance at Magnum. 

He looked wary. “I wish you’d told me right from the start.”

“And get the look from you I’m getting right _now_?” I shot back. “No thanks. Whatever you _think_ you know about me is wrong, Magnum. I’m not a hooker, I’m not a gold digger and I’m not a damsel in distress. I can take care of this _myself_.”

“I know,” he replied, and that startled me. I stared at him and Magnum added, “But maybe some backup would be a good idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is anyone reading this?
> 
> (Nyotaimori is eating sushi off a naked woman.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Thomas**

Having spent time in the military, particularly military intelligence, I’ve been exposed to the seamier side of human nature more than I care to admit. Behind all those fancy uniforms and noble ideals, the human beings responsible for gathering information often sink to the lowest common denominator to do so, and that meant dealing with vices. 

Most of them are depressingly common: alcohol, drugs, and various addictions. Everyone has a pressure point; something susceptible to blackmail or exploitation and it’s painful to admit I learned a lot more about human nature than I needed. I learned a lot about my _own_ human nature too, which is one of the reasons the Navy and eventually I parted company. My point is though, that while Daisy’s history didn’t shock me per se, it did depress me a little. Mostly because I liked her and the idea that she’d been involved with the baser side of life was disappointing.

Then I made the mistake of _saying_ so, in a roundabout way.

“What?” she snapped at me, glaring. We were driving back from the police station around dawn, which normally is a gorgeous time of day in Hawaii but at the moment it was overcast and I was thinking about stopping for doughnuts.

“I just meant that I think it’s kind of a waste of your talents to be that kind of . . . performer,” I repeated. “You’re smart; there are a lot of other jobs out there.”

She shot me a bland look she must have stolen from Higgins. “When you’re on a case, Tomcat, how much do you charge? Typically?”

I winced at the nickname; I was going to have to break her of that habit. “Well two hundred a day, plus expenses on average. Most cases run about three days, so six to eight hundred a case.” I didn’t add that at least twenty-five percent of the time I’d get stiffed, and there were always bad checks and people I had to badger for my money for weeks on end.

“And you get a case _maybe_ every two weeks . . . in a good month?”

That was optimistic, but I shrugged in agreement, not sure where this was going.

“So roughly you make about sixteen hundred a month when things are going your way, and zero when they aren’t,” Daisy murmured. “Kind of a hand to mouth existence even though you’re smart and there are other jobs out there.”

“Daisy—”

“When I was working in Holmby Hills, I made a thousand a _week_ before tips,” she sighed. “Four days working, one day for paperwork, two days off.”

“What?” I risked a look at her, honestly startled. 

“Four thousand plus a _month_ ,” Daisy shrugged. “For letting clients watch me catfight or tie them up, or playact whatever little fantasy they wanted. And ninety-nine percent of those people paid up-front and treated me well. I got _Christmas cards_ from some of them, Magnum. If it wasn’t for Isaac, I’d probably still be there, socking away money in my stock portfolio and not shooting at or getting shot by, anyone. Maybe you ought to chew on that for a while before you waste your time judging me, okay?”

Ouch. Both the information and her tone pinned my ears back and I didn’t say anything all the way back to the estate. She hopped out and went upstairs while I reported in to Higgins about the dog whistle and then left for a nap, feeling discouraged.

I guess the problem was that not only was she right, but also that I didn’t really know much about Daisy. I didn’t know much and I wanted to know more. She wasn’t like a lot of other women I’d known and that was . . . intriguing. The independent streak. The daredevil attitude. The confidence. And yes, the hints of a darker nature too, I guess—she and I were more alike than I wanted to admit.

So I slept, and I had a dream.

Now I’m a big believer in dreams. Some of the most intense moments of my life have related to dreams I’ve had and I’ve learned to pay attention to them for good or bad because more often than not, they’re trying to tell me something. Something I wasn’t catching or paying attention to when I was awake.

But not this time. No, this dream was more along the lines of sheer physical attraction. Basic drive—she’s a woman, I’m a man. I can’t deny that Daisy is pretty and in great shape. Those are facts, and apparently my brain felt the need to remind me that since I hadn’t had sex with anyone in a while, hey, why not create a pornographic dream to highlight that?

But it was more than that too, if I’m being honest. Sure the searing images were unforgettable, but even through it, I felt a deeper connection. A . . . bond.

It wasn’t until I cleaned myself up, showered and got dressed that I realized my brain was also reminding me that intimacy is more than just attraction. It’s about trust as well, and in the dream, Daisy was trusting me.

Or _was_ she?

Maybe my mind was creating what I wanted to be true instead of what was actually true. That was too heavy a concept to deal with on an empty stomach, so I made myself some lunch and decided I’d go paddle-boarding for a while to clear my head.

**Daisy**

It took a couple of days to get back on an even keel with Magnum. I hadn’t meant to snap at him but he was such a damned Eagle Scout at times, honestly. It’s a common problem I see— some guys feel threatened by a woman who earns more than they do, especially in a line of work they don’t really understand.

What I did for Jane was mostly psychological. I was there fulfilling fantasies in a safe environment. The clients and I had a rapport of trust that allowed them to indulge themselves without fear or judgment or misunderstandings. And I, well I had not only the professional satisfaction of helping them, but also earned a good living doing it. If it wasn’t for the isolation of the work, I’d completely content still doing it, but that was the problem. 

Working for Jane meant discretion, which translated into no real personal life. As an employee of Casa de Làtigos I had non-disclosure agreements and professional standards clauses and all sorts of demands on my time that made it nearly impossible to have friendships and relationships outside of work. Long story short: it got lonely at times. I had co-workers and made a few friends there, but I hadn’t had a date in years, and certainly no sex outside of sessions with my vibrator.

Yes sort of TMI but true. It also explained why I was a little awkward around Magnum as well—I just wasn’t _used_ to being friends, especially with a guy. Especially with an attractive guy. I mean I won’t lie; Tomcat wasn’t exactly hard on the eyes. Most of my clients were regular men with average physiques, so hanging around someone built more like the stuntmen I used to know was disconcerting.

But he meant well and it’s hard to stay annoyed at someone who gives you Macadamia nuts as a peace offering, so that helped. Magnum called in the favor about my offer to play wife again and laid out the details about the marriage counselor scheme while I listened.

“So these two therapists are running a blackmail scheme?”

“So it seems,” Magnum replied. “Threatening to reveal a combination of confidential information and photos to keep collecting ‘fees.’ My client isn’t the first victim but he’s the one that’s going after them. We’ll pose as a couple and I’ll see what I can find.”

“A couple with a problem,” I pointed out. “What’s our issue?”

He gave me a blank look. “Um . . . we fight?” Magnum offered.

“Good,” I grinned. “What about? Money? Or sex?”

“Not sex,” he shot back, scowling.

“Well it’s got to be _something_ personal,” I reluctantly closed the jar of macadamias. “Otherwise we could just go talk to a financial planner. No, we need something with that blackmail potential.”

I watched him mull that over and realize I was right, which meant his expression went thoughtful. “You have a point. Um . . .”

“Maybe you have someone on the side,” I offered. “Or maybe _I_ do. I could smooch Rick to make it convincing.”

Now Magnum’s expression twisted into something almost painful. “Wait. So you’re saying you would choose Rick over _me_?”

“Well, if _you_ want to have something on the side with him—“

“No.” Now the scowl was back. “There are limits to what I ask my friends to do, and that’s _one_ of them.”

“Fine,” I sighed. “How about . . . before we got married I posed nude for a men’s magazine and you can’t get over it. How’s that?”

New expression. Skeptical; slightly worried; slightly intrigued. “That . . . could work. Until you needed to prove it.”

I picked up the jar of macadamias and tossed it from hand to hand. “I can.”

“Really?”

“Really,” I murmured. “Thank goodness for pseudonyms. So are we the Smiths again?”

“Wait, go back. You _actually_ posed for a men’s magazine?”

“See? This is going to work perfectly!” I pointed out with a grin. “Yes. I even have a copy which _no_ , you may not see.”

“I’m an investigator,” Magnum reminded me with a gleam in his eye. “I can find it.”

“Not without a title,” I taunted. “So think that little conflict will be enough for us to qualify for the Dynamic Commitment seminar, Mr. Smith?”

“More than enough,” he murmured, shooting me a playful glance. “Maybe _too_ much, Mrs. Smith.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Thomas**

Trying to go undercover is hard enough when it’s just me. I’ve done it before and generally pulled it off because self-reliance is a wonderful thing most of the time. Going undercover with someone else requires a degree of teamwork and while I could manage it with TC or Rick, that’s because we’ve known each other long enough to anticipate each other.

Not quite so with Daisy. Since her commercial wasn’t going to be filmed until next week, I took the case. We agreed to dress as preppy as we could, which meant a Lacoste shirt and khakis for me. She went with some little sundress but she was also wearing a pair of glasses that made her look like a librarian. A _cute_ librarian. Added to that she’d put her hair in these flirty sort of pigtails. All that was . . . distracting, but not nearly as much as the three carat diamond on her left hand.

“Okay, where’d you get _that_?” I wanted to know as we climbed into the Ferrari.

“Won it in a poker game,” Daisy snickered. “Look if we want to hook these con artists, we have to show off that we’re rich. The car helps, and this . . .” she waved her hand a little, “drives it home. So you’re the one with _big_ money, right?”

I grinned. “Sure. The Smiths are FFV right back to the founding fathers. I run a branch of the fah-mily’s investment firm when I’m not playing tennis and squash.”

“Ooooh, squash, huh? Handsome _and_ spoiled,” Daisy nodded.

“Spoiled?” I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that, but she gave a shrug. 

“Maybe not spoiled, but . . . used to getting your way, then. I’m well-off too. Ugly duckling of my family, met you at . . .”

“. . . The country club,” I prompted, pulling out onto the highway and heading towards Ala Moana. “The Spring Fundraiser for the Gilded Palms Art Gallery.”

“Ah yes,” Daisy giggled. “How could I forget? You dropped a canapé down my cleavage when one of the caterers bumped you. The rest is history.”

I grinned because it was a pretty great image.

“Speaking of history,” I began as tactfully as I could a moment later. “Tell me about this magazine so I can be, ah, properly outraged.”

Daisy stuck her lower lip out, which along with the pigtails made her look about fourteen. “Okay, the fake story is that I did it on a dare with two of my Sorority sisters. The real story though? About nine years ago my car was stolen. An older Volkswagen Beetle but it was the only transportation I had. I was stuck with a part-time job and freelance work that wasn’t steady enough to build much in the way of savings. There was a photography studio next door to the answering service I worked at and they had been offering me nude modeling jobs for a while. This time I took them up on it. Got enough to replace the car.”

“The ends justified the means,” I sympathized. Nobody wanted to see _me_ naked, but I’d sold my blood more than once when I had to.

“Something like that,” Daisy nodded. “I used a fake name and never told anyone until now. Not that I’m ashamed of my body or anything, but . . . it wasn’t where I wanted my career to go.”

I thought about Holmby Hills and for once, kept my mouth shut.

“Then my parents found out and . . .” she trailed off.

“Not good,” I agreed.

Daisy turned to look at me, her gaze bleak. “They never liked me to begin with, and yeah, this was too much for them. We haven’t spoken since.”

That took me aback. “They’re your parents,” I protested. “Of _course_ they like you.”

“No, they don’t,” she countered, sighing. “I wasn’t planned; I was a difficult birth and I was an imposition on both their careers—a fact that both of them reminded me of repeatedly while I was growing up. I’m sure you have _great_ parents, Tomcat, but trust me, not everyone is lucky that way.”

There was something in her tone of voice that told me she was telling the truth—at least the truth as she knew it. And while I’m no psychologist, suddenly a career as a stuntwoman—a person forever looking for attention and approval—made sense.

I shifted my hand to pat hers as best I could while driving. 

We made it to the Rolling Waves Hotel and just inside the lobby was the sign for the counseling, directing us to a meeting room. I parked my sunglasses on top of my head, wrote out my name badge and stuck it on my chest, doing my best to look rich and impatient. Sort of channeling my inner Higgins I guess. Daisy took her time and I stared at her tag.

“John and . . . _Marsha_?” I muttered, echoes of Stan Freberg in my head.

She grinned at me.

**Daisy**

I don’t know why I told him about my parents, I really don’t. Maybe it’s because Magnum listens. Maybe it’s because picking up that old issue of _Sizzle_ brought back some pretty bitter memories. Whatever it was I felt awkward having said anything. I mean it had been years since that last fight, and I’d gotten used to the idea of being disowned. I didn’t need my father’s condescension or mom’s pointed barbs getting back in my head. They’d made it clear that I wasn’t welcome in their lives and I’d done my best to honor that order.

Still, it hurt. I always felt like I needed to make up for my existence around them and in the early years I tried, I really did but neither my achievements nor my failures ever seemed to make a difference. Honestly, I got the feeling they were glad to find out about my pictorial since it gave them the perfect excuse to cut me out of their lives.

If only that issue of _Sizzle_ hadn’t shown up at the barber shop my dad went to. Ah well.

We made it to the hotel and signed in; Magnum looked pained at my choice of names.

“Marsha,” I told him. “My sisters are April and May, don’t you know.”

“You’re not taking this seriously,” he accused in an undertone, but he got that half-grin on his face which told me he was at least amused.

“Hey, _you_ could be John Jacob Jingleheimer Smith . . .“ I offered under my breath.

So close to making him laugh. SO close, but no, Magnum just gave me a pained look and steered me into the room. There were two other couples there, and at the front of the room was a curvy middle-aged blonde woman in a beaded poncho.

“Hello folks, thanks for showing up on time!” she called out to us. “We still have a few minutes before we start, so find a place to sit and get ready to do some soul-searching!”

“I don’t want to soul-search,” I told Magnum, who gave me a bland smile.

“We’re being watched; look pouty,” he told me, so I did, huffing a little. As I set my purse down I peeked around the room: two painfully thin touristy types on one side, and an elderly couple who looked ready to shiv each other just on Magnum’s left. I fiddled with my glasses, pretending to clean them.

“Chilly in here,” I told him meaningfully.

“Oh yeah,” he agreed without looking at me.

We found out the blonde in the poncho was Sylvia, who had a degree from Tyrol University in something called ‘Empathetic Analysis and Dual Emotional Harmonic Reinforcement’ which was horseshit of the highest degree. I had trouble keeping a straight face while she lectured for a while on the ‘waves of hurting rays’ that she claimed were rolling off all of us. Magnum was shifting around in his seat too.

Finally we were asked as couples to meet with Sylvia at a little side room. She watched us come in and sit down before shaking her head at us.

“So Julius told me about your . . . contention,” she said. “Your . . . indiscretion?” That last was to me of course.

Magnum grunted.

“It’s not that big a deal, _John_!” I protested, right on cue. “The human body is beautiful!”

“Not when yours is about to make us the laughingstock of the club, _Marsha_ ,” Magnum growled.

It was sort of sexy to hear him even if the anger wasn’t real.

“I realize it’s a sensitive topic,” Sylvia jumped in, and I noticed she focused on Magnum instead of both of us. “But we can work through this together and get you two back to the loving couple you were meant to be.” Then she looked at me. “Did you, ah, bring the item in question?”

I had; I fished in my purse and reluctantly handed over the magazine, well-aware of Magnum’s gaze following on it. Sylvia took it and set it face down on the table between us. “All right then. So Marsha, tell me about what motivated you to do this.”

I spun a story about a whimsical dare; how my sorority sisters Sondra and Paige had challenged me, and how I’d agreed to it since it would be under a pseudonym and it was just a silly prank, really, nothing serious. Even managed to work up a few tears about it, wiping under my glasses when I was done.

Sylvia looked mildly sympathetic, which I counted as a win. I risked a sidelong glance at Magnum.

He looked irritated. “Be that as it may, _Marsha_ , this little peccadillo of yours could well cost me the Meyer account and get us banned from the yacht club.”

“Johnnnnn,” I drawled out. “No one needs to know! I didn’t use my real name!”

Sylvia tutted. “How bad could it be?” she murmured, and then she flipped the magazine open, landing right on my, um, best side.

No one said anything. I didn’t have to; I remembered that particular pose. Sylvia looked a little startled, and Magnum . . . 

I actually heard his teeth grind.


	8. Chapter 8

**Thomas**

I’m not sure how I managed to get my hand to close the magazine; certainly the rest of my body didn’t want to, but I flipped the pages shut and sat back crossing my arms. I sort of _had_ to; part of me was pretending to be furious and another part was . . . well you get the picture.

And it had been, well, _quite_ a picture.

“Well, yes, that’s certainly all _out_ there,” Sylvia murmured and I got the feeling she was trying not to laugh. I didn’t dare look at Daisy at this point so I settled for channeling my anger into my next comment.

“It’s . . . indefensible,” I snarled. “And this meeting is a complete waste of time.”

“Now now,” Sylvia tried to soothe me. “We all make mistakes and do things that are . . . regrettable. Fact of life, you know.”

“Not in _my_ life,” I snapped and got up, mostly because I didn’t think I could handle staying much longer. “I’m going to the bar. Don’t wait up, _Marsha_.”

I strode out and actually did what I’d said, ordering a beer and nursing it for a while for the look of the thing. Kinda overpriced but I was in a good position to watch the doorways of the meeting rooms and take note of the other couples.

Gave me time to . . . cool down as the saying goes.  
The touristy pair looked more confused than upset, and the man talking to them had to be Julius, Sylvia’s partner in crime. He had his white hair slicked back with too much Brylcreem and a blinding set of dentures—typical used car salesman style. Whatever he was saying to the tourists seemed reassuring and he sent them out before spying me and strolling over.

“Ah, Mr. Smith. I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Julius Sloan, of Dynamic Conflict Resolutions.”

I grunted.

“You know, resolutions takes _time_ ,” he told me, shifting into a well-practiced spiel. “And while you’re upset now and rightly so, things will work out.”

“Certainly. A divorce will settle it.”

“Now now,” he looked a little alarmed and I could see why; a divorce would render the blackmail material void. “That’s drastic--your wife loves you.”

“Debatable,” I replied. 

“I’m sure she does,” Julius told me. “After all, the two of you are here so it’s clear you want to work this out and move past it. Yours isn’t the only marriage with a few little flaws, you know. I hope the two of you will come to the little dinner in the Sunset room tonight and you’ll see—you’re not alone.”

I made a non-committal sound but Julius just flashed his choppers at me. “There you go; that’s the spirit!” He clapped my shoulder and left, which was good since I really wanted a moment to consider my next move.

My client had mentioned that the weekend consisted of the aforementioned dinner followed by some sort of trust games on Saturday. I knew that Sylvia and Julius were somewhere on the tenth floor and figured it was time to find out which room.

So I picked up one of the stationary envelopes in the lobby and addressed it to Sylvia, figuring it would be my key to finding out where she was.

“I hate to admit this, but I need to return this right away to Sylvia Neill?” I told the busy young clerk behind the counter. She looked up at me and I gave her my most chagrined expression. “One of her credit cards—she left it behind when we had lunch together and I want to get it back to her as soon as possible.”

“I can take that for you,” she offered but I didn’t hand it over.

“It’s all right,” I assured her and lowered my voice. “She’s older and having a few . . . _memory_ problems these days. I really don’t want to embarrass her--just wanted to slip it under her door so she can keep her dignity intact. My good deed for the day.” I did my best to look like a boy scout.

“Well isn’t that sweet of you!” the clerk beamed. “Hang on.”

Within a minute I learned that Sylvia was in room 1023. With that little bit of information, I felt confident that it was just a matter of time before get in and see what Sylvia might be hoarding. I wandered around the hotel and eventually found Daisy out at the pool where she wasn’t alone.

She was looking cute in a flowered one-piece suit, showing a little boy how to cannonball off the side and I watched her patiently explain it, encouraging him to tuck his legs up and hit with water just right. Daisy was good at it, cheering him on and grinning with him when it got a really good one in that soaked part of the surrounding pool deck. I sauntered over between splashes and squatted down to talk to her.

“Nice job, coach.” 

**Daisy**

I decided to hit the pool after Magnum took off since cooling off myself would be a good idea. We had a room on the 6th floor and it was pretty nice—double beds so we wouldn’t have any problems _there_ , thank goodness. Once I was down in the pool I met Riley and showed him the fine art of displacing as much water as possible, which is always fun.

I like kids. Hope to have a few myself someday because honestly, they’re pretty neat. Anyway, Riley saw that Magnum wanted to talk to me so he gave me a hug and scooted off as I swung myself up to sit on the side of the pool. “I have my moments. What’s up?”

“I’ve got Sylvia’s room number so I’d like a chance to snoop around in it. If I can get you to keep her busy after dinner tonight that would be my chance,” I told her. “Think you can handle that?”

I nodded. “Sure. So are we going to be fighting still, or on the verge of making up?”

“Does it make a difference?” He looked curious and I nodded.

“If we’re still fighting they might consider us a lost cause,” I pointed out. “But if we look like we’re going to make a go of it, I think Sylvia and Julius will be a lot more attentive.”

He nodded at that. “Okay. Any ideas?”

“Some hand-holding might help,” I snickered. “When’s the dinner?”

“Around six I think,” he told me, glancing away. “Um, you’ve still got some gold in a few places, Daisy.”

“I what?” I glanced down and sure enough, there were traces glittering on my décolleté. “Ohh.”

He grinned and walked away, but not before I splashed his pant leg.

\--oo00oo—

We made it through dinner smiling and looking a little less combative. I talked to Sylvia and gave Magnum time to go do his snooping thing so when he showed up back at the room I was already in my standard shortie pajamas, watching the end of a movie on TV.

“So I found a couple of files . . . hey, that’s . . .” he pointed at the screen. “The Great Escape!”

“Yep. McQueen and Garner in their prime, along with McCallum,” I replied, patting the bed next to me. “Almost over.”

He happily dropped on the mattress next to me and settled in; we both winced at the gruesome scene where Gordon Jackson and company get shot by the Nazis. “Damn it,” I sighed. “Well at least Garner survives.”

“I thought you’d be rooting for McQueen, given his background with stunts,” Magnum commented.

“Nah, he was kind of a jerk,” I sighed. “Okay to stunt people but not so much to women in general. At least Garner has a reputation for being nice.”

“Yeah.”

After the credits rolled we both stayed put, propped up against the headboard in the lamplight and I looked at him. “So you found files?”

“Files,” he agreed. “Apparently Anna and Lars have an open marriage; Elliot and Jane have been fighting for years over an embezzling incident. Not earth-shaking secrets but enough to keep paying out for a while I guess.”

“Huh.” I gave a shrug. “I guess _our_ secret’s the most scandalous of the bunch.”

After a minute Magnum spoke again, his voice lower. “Could have been worse. You could have told them you like . . . tying people up.”

I took a breath. “And that I like _being_ tied up. Yeah, _that_ revelation probably would have made Sylvia’s dentures fall out.”

He grinned, which made his dimples show and I liked that. “So . . . why?”

I knew what Magnum meant, and took my time responding. “Because it’s . . . intense. Emotionally intense, Tomcat. It involves trust and focus and a sort of honesty right from the start,” I told him. “You don’t just grab a rope and start making knots, no, you . . . talk. About being safe. About what’s allowed and wanted. Especially about what’s NOT allowed or wanted. The . . . attention is powerful.”

He seemed to take that in, which I appreciated, giving it a good mulling over. “So it’s . . . negotiated.”

“Very much so,” I murmured feeling a little flushed. “Nothing’s left to chance.”

“But it’s not . . . sex.”

“It’s . . . different,” I told him. “Sex in your head. Physical sex is simple. Kinbaku teaches you what _really_ turns you on.”

Saying it scared me a little but he didn’t fidget or change the subject or laugh. No instead Magnum turned his head to look at me. “How do you decide who . . . does what?”

I laughed. “That’s . . . negotiated too. Depends on whether you want to be in charge, or if you want to be told what to do. If you’re in charge, you wear the rope. If you’re following directions, you’re not.”

He blinked those big green eyes and I wanted to laugh at his confusion. “Tomcat . . . are you . . . interested?”


	9. Chapter 9

**Thomas**

This . . . was dangerous territory. Dangerous and I knew it because even though Daisy said it wasn’t about sex, it sort of _was_. And she was absolutely right about the difference between physical and mental sex. In the best relationships both are in sync, making the whole experience sublime and transcendent and in my case, probably a lost cause. At the same time, I was genuinely curious. What did she get out of . . . this? How did it work?

“Sort of,” I managed trying to sound more confident than I was. I realized right then that we were in a bed together and I felt my face heat up.

“I thought so. And stop looking at me like I’m going to _bite_ you,” Daisy shoved my shoulder a little with hers. It was weirdly reassuring, especially when she grinned.

“Sorry, it’s just so far out of my, ah, realm of experience,” I admitted. 

“You’re not alone,” Daisy told me. “Okay. Here’s the first step, before anything else happens. You need to choose a word that will tell me to stop everything.”

“What?” 

“A word,” Daisy said quietly. “Something deliberate like a password, or a code. And it can’t be ‘no’ or ‘stop’ because sometimes in the heat of things people say them and don’t mean them. This has to be something completely unmistakable. Like ‘Firefly’ or ‘Razorblade.’”

Part of me wanted to laugh; it seemed ridiculous, like something out of a kid’s game but Daisy was giving me a wry smile. “I know, it sounds silly but this is where trust starts. You say _that_ word, or I say _my_ word, and everything. Stops. No hesitation, no second-guessing. I hear it from you, or you hear it from me and we stop.”

I thought about that.

“Okay,” I managed. “Stalag. That’s . . . the word I choose.”

“Stalag,” Daisy repeated. “Okay.” She didn’t ask why, just nodded and it made me feel better. She shifted, turning to face me, sitting cross-legged and leaning forward to look me in the eyes. “Good. Mine is Rodeo.”

“Rodeo,” I repeated. “So . . . what happens now?”

Daisy looked at me for a moment. “Well, it sort of depends on whether you want to be in charge or not.”

“Yes.” It popped out before I could stop it. I’d been tied up more times in my life than I wanted to admit and _none_ of them were fun experiences. If I was going to try this out, I definitely wanted to have control of the situation. On the other hand, it meant being the one tied up . . . and I wasn’t sure how that worked. It must have showed on my face because Daisy held out her hands.

“Hold my wrists,” she told me. I leaned forward and gripped them; slender but strong.

“Okay. You have me in your power,” Daisy murmured. “Nothing too serious. Squeeze them. Ever so lightly.”

“Like this?” I tightened my fingers, watching her.

She gave a little smile, closing her eyes. “Good. It’s a firm grip but not overpowering. Do it again and tell me something about how it feels.”

Very lightly I repeated the action, adding, “Your skin is cold.”

She laughed. “True. If I struggled right now you wouldn’t have much trouble stopping me. You’re stronger and smell nice.”

That imagery shook me a little and the compliment made me blush. “Ah, thank you.”

“So. Tomcat, on one level I’m in your power but on another it’s clear to us both that _I’m_ in charge. You’re holding me but I’m the one telling you what to do right now. Makes sense?”

It . . . did. I was about to let go of her but Daisy said, “Don’t. Not yet. Pull my hands towards you. Slowly. Reel me in.”

The way she used her voice got under my skin. Soft and bare, in a way. I pulled, watching Daisy roll her head back, eyes still closed and the look of her that way in the light of the lamp . . . suddenly I had a peek at _exactly_ what she meant about intensity. We hadn’t done anything more than hold hands but I felt more than the surface showed here.

Using some strength, feeling her resistance in the flex of her fingers I tugged until Daisy raised her head and smiled at me, her gaze unfocused and gleaming.

“Ohhh, _yes._ If we were in a playful mood, oh I’d have you go rougher. Much rougher. But gently deliberate is very nice too. Now let my wrists go and take my hands, please.”

I fumbled a little, aware that I was holding my breath, aware that I was responding in well, inappropriate ways as well. Her palms were warm, and the squeeze of her fingers on mine felt nice.

“Deep breath, slow . . . and yes,” Daisy murmured. “And very gently let go . . . there you are, the five minute version.”

**Daisy**

Ohhh, that was nice. I _suspected_ Magnum would be good at taking directions—most military types were—but at the same time, his strength was a heck of a turn-on, and that natural desire of his to be in charge had some allure as well. Not many guests at Casa de Làtigos wanted to let me lead the dance, so having a moment here to indulge myself was sweet.

At the same time, I was encouraged that he wasn’t freaking out—or if he was, he was masking it well. Magnum was watching me and I winked at him. “The floor is open to questions.”

“So what else . . . happens?” Now I was getting the full blush, but that dogged curiosity was driving the question, and behind it was something else I couldn’t quite name. Something a little sad.

“Touch,” I replied, looking down at my hands. “Focused . . . sensation. If I was following someone’s lead they might want me to rake my nails on their skin. Pinch them. Breathe a warm breath in their ear or even bite them. And talk. Praise mostly, and some challenge. When you give someone your full attention it’s . . .”

“Intense,” Magnum nodded. “Why?”

That was a harder question because I knew what he was really asking, so I took my time.

“Because some people need— _crave_ —that connection. They need to be in control, or they need to give up control, if only for a little while. And they can’t get it in whatever relationship they’re in. Don’t know what they need or don’t trust their lover to provide it. As I said, it’s all about trust.”

He chewed on that for a moment, brows drawing together and I wondered who he was thinking of. 

“Look, it’s getting late and we’re both tired, _John_ ,” I teased. “Let’s get some sleep and we can discuss it more tomorrow if you’ve still got questions.”

“I probably will, _Marsha,_ ” he muttered but his expression had lightened and I took that as a good sign. I climbed off the bed and moved to the other one, sliding under the covers and curling up, feeling a little tingly and pleased with myself if only because at least the man in the other bed was starting to understand.

Usually it would take a while for me to fall asleep, especially in a strange bed, but I dropped off easily and slept pretty well. When I finally woke up it was nearly seven and a rainy morning. After I used the bathroom and washed up I padded back into the room and fished the room service menu out of the nightstand between our beds. Magnum was still asleep, sprawled on his stomach and snoring a little, which amused me.

Men.

I ordered as quietly as I could, doubling everything and by the time I hung up, he was awake, rolling over to blink at me. Talk about bedhead; those curls of his were _everywhere._ “What time is it?”

“A little after seven. If you want the shower first it’s yours. Room service is on the way.”

That seemed to make him happy and after Magnum got up I slipped over and made the bed; didn’t want the maids tattling to Sylvia. I turned on the local news and a while later was up to get the door when I heard him come out of the bathroom.

“Breakfast, John,” I sang out.

“Good, I could use it,” he replied, and the young man rolling the cart in grinned.

I turned; Magnum was wearing a towel low on his hips with another slung around his neck and _ohgoodlord_ I had no idea how stunning that looked. I sort of goggled for a moment before catching myself and handed over the tip to the boy, who took it and nodded before stepping out again.

“Warn a girl before you _do_ that!” I complained to cover up how red my face was. “Geez!”

“You’re my wife; you’re supposed to be used to it,” he grinned.

“Looks to me like the wrong _one_ of us posed for a magazine,” I sniffed, turning my attention reluctantly to the cart and uncovering scrambled eggs. 

He laughed at that. “Speaking of which, where is it?”

I looked up. “What?”

“Your . . . magazine. You collected it back from Sylvia, right?”

And that’s when I felt panic set in.


End file.
